


give and take

by leopardfrog



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Belts, F/M, Rimming, Spanking, The Vault (Doctor Who), Vault Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopardfrog/pseuds/leopardfrog
Summary: Sometimes he has to give a little, in their delicate negotiations. Sometimes less than delicately.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Kudos: 23





	give and take

“I need to be,” Missy licks her lips, “punished.”

The Doctor frowns at her over the magazine he’s been pretending to read while covertly watching her pace the Vault. “What?”

“For my own good, obviously,” she says. “A little _corporal correction_ ,” her mouth savours the syllables, “would be just the thing.” She bends, with a flourish, over the top of the piano, and raises her skirt until he can see she's bare underneath. “Go on, teach me a lesson.”

He’s well used to her theatrics, but still has to clear his throat awkwardly. “Not like that," he says. "I'm not here to hurt you."

“Not even a little? Come on, you know you want to.” She wriggles her rear. “Trapped your little friend inside a Dalek, didn’t I? That’s got to be worth a slap or two.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. Forget I said it.” She straightens, letting her skirt fall back into place, abruptly serious. “Let me put this in terms you’ll understand. You promised to take care of me. I need this. Don't make me beg for it.”

That quiet admission gets to him in a way all her teasing and playacting can’t. She’s been restless lately, chafing against the restrictions of their agreement, and either hasn’t wanted to or hasn’t been able to let him help. Now she’s asking. If this is the itch that’s been plaguing her, well, he’s done worse things. 

“All right,” he says finally. 

A flush of colour rises in her face as she watches him approach. He lays his jacket over the back of his chair and unbuttons his collar, giving himself a moment to contemplate what’s been laid bare, literally and figuratively, before him. 

Missy bends over the piano again, still graceful but less dramatic about it. He pushes her skirt up past her hips, where it will stay out of the way. Guides her hands to the piano lid. “Don’t let go of that,” he says.

“Or what?” she asks dryly. “You’ll spank me?”

“Or I'll stop,” he says. “Immediately.” 

“Why don’t you _start_ , before I die of boredom,” she mutters, but her hands stay where he put them. 

He gives her right buttock a quick, precise slap, silencing her. Missy sighs, something relaxing in her, as he does the same to the left. Several more follow, preliminaries to warm up his hand and her arse; already, her smooth, pale skin is turning blotchy and pink. He examines his work, running his hand over her flushed cheeks, then spanks them again, harder. For the first time, Missy jumps a little. 

He hesitates—a part of him knows, already, that this will get out of hand—the same part of him that knew it perfectly well when he agreed to this—and then commits himself, slapping her arse sharply again, gauging her reaction. Her breath catches, but her grip on the piano never falters. “Is that how you want this?” he asks. His voice rasps; he tries to get it back under control. “Is it?” he asks more quietly, serious, caressing the place he slapped. Her skin is warm, reddening fast. 

Quickly, briefly, not looking back at him, she nods.

“Hold on tight, then,” he says, and begins.

He spanks her thoroughly, ruthlessly, his strokes brisk and hard, not letting up even when his hand is stinging and her arse is reddening all over. She’s started moaning a bit with the impacts, but not like it really hurts. Or not like she doesn't like that it hurts. He’s becoming increasingly distracted by those moans, actually. By the way she’s bent over, bared for him. By the movements of her hips, and the sudden tightness of his trousers— 

He leaves off abruptly, trying to force his breathing to slow, his body to calm. 

Missy makes a frustrated little noise that doesn’t help at all. “Don’t stop _now_ ,” she groans, exasperated. Then, more quietly: “Please.”

Before he can reconsider the wisdom of where this is going, he takes a step back, unbuckling his belt and sliding it free of his trousers. Missy shudders without looking around. He doubles the belt over in his hand and strokes it over her reddened flesh, giving them both a moment to prepare. He has no illusions about who’s really in charge here; she’s probably delighted to have pushed him this far. That’s what this is about, after all—whatever need he’s satisfying is real, yes, but there’s also the satisfaction of having him capitulate. Sometimes he has to give a little, in their delicate negotiations. Sometimes less than delicately. 

He waits long enough for her to object, if she cares to. He is unsurprised that she does not.

He’s probably bracing himself harder than she is when he finally draws back and strikes, sending the belt solidly into the fullest part of her buttocks. Missy moans loudly, in pain and relief; his own reaction is just as immediate and inevitable, his cock stiffening relentlessly, straining against his trousers, but there’s no going back now. Again he brings the belt down, and again, laying darker red stripes across her skin, the snap of leather punctuated by gasps and moans and occasionally sharper cries.

This needs to reach some kind of resolution, and soon, but he can’t—he’s in no condition to— He stifles a groan himself, his free hand clenched as he desperately denies the urge to massage the front of his trousers. Missy is hanging on to the piano as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright; even when her hips are jerking with the blows, her arse flaming red, she never lets go, never asks for it to stop. 

He's the one who can't take any more. He drops the belt with a clatter. Missy twitches at the sound, but stays bent over the piano, receptive; she knows what’s coming. She probably planned for it to happen. _I need this_ , she said. So does he, now. He unzips his trousers with shaking hands, frees his cock; but when he tries to part her legs with his knee, she inexplicably resists.

“Missy,” he groans. It’s far too late to be embarrassed by the state he’s in, or the blatant desire in his voice. 

“Yes, go on,” she gasps.

"Open your legs, then," he says, trying to work his hand in between them.

She shoots him a feverish grin. “Make me.”

“Come on.” He rubs his cock at the join of her thighs slowly, persuasively, so close to where he wants to be. “Let me in. Please.”

“You’ll have to try harder than that,” she pants. 

He pushes against her, cock seeking in vain, lubricated by its own leaking wetness. He’s going to finish right here if he isn't careful. He can just imagine it: the rush of climax, her mocking laughter, sticky fluid spent over her skin. An anticipatory shudder runs through him. 

No. He gets himself under control and straightens. "I'm coming inside you," he informs her. "If you don't want it there…" He puts his cockhead between her arse cheeks, feels her tense up—has he actually surprised her? "It's going in here." 

They both know she can take him without niceties, though it might not be comfortable; when she doesn’t argue or offer an alternative, he pushes slowly in. Missy squirms a little at first, but once it’s actually happening she goes still, her fingers tightening on the edge of the piano. 

“There,” he says, his cock deep inside her at last. “That's better, isn't it?” She sniffs with as much disdainful dignity as she can muster under the circumstances. 

He thrusts gently at first, giving her time to adjust; it’s been a while, for both of them. When he begins to find his rhythm, Missy muffles a groan, as if she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her enjoy it. “Don’t hold back,” he says, moving a little faster. “I certainly won’t.” 

Then he shifts his stance, takes hold of her hip, and begins to fuck her properly. He’s too far gone to make it last, much less do anything for her, but Missy doesn’t seem to care, moaning harder with each push of his cock, rising on her toes to take it, all restraint abandoned. 

“I told you—I would come—in here,” he pants in the last frantic moments, and then he does, pushing deep to give it all to her; first the full measure of his cock, and then surge after surge of release. 

Missy stiffens with a gasp at the climactic moment, then relaxes slowly as he does, though he knows she didn’t come. She leans heavily against the piano when he withdraws, and he parts her thighs at last, revealing what she’s been hiding: her cunt wet and hot, clit swollen defiantly. He goes to his knees and buries his face in her from behind. She jerks against his grip, but if she isn't going to let go of the piano and end this, he doesn’t intend to leave her unsatisfied. He spreads open her cunt and licks her all over, tracing every slick contour of flesh, sucking her deeply flushed clit until she's moaning and writhing, trying to pull away even as her body tenses toward orgasm. 

When it’s clear that she’s trying not to let it happen, he releases her clit and licks his way back down her labia, letting her gather herself. Harsh, heavy breathing, the quiver of her thighs; oh, yes, she’s close. What more does she want from him? He mouths at her slick entrance, then slips his tongue inside, loosing a glorious rush of wetness; she lets out a sudden moan, rocking against his mouth, but then stills herself, strangely reluctant to get caught up in it.

A few good rubs of her clit would finish her, he’s sure, if only she’d let him deliver them. He tongues her more shallowly, lapping up the copious evidence of her arousal; a futile task, as more keeps coming. No matter how strenuously she holds off her climax, it’s getting close, and she’s going to need to settle down soon and let him get her there. He licks her clit a few times to make his point, priming her without trying to push her over the edge; when she begins to squirm in protest, he moves on, tongue gliding between her labia and beyond, delving into the valley between her buttocks. 

It's not until he runs his tongue over her arsehole that her resistance ceases. He might have known. He licks it again, more slowly, testing her reaction—a shivery gasp—and then settles in attentively, soothing that chafed flesh with his tongue, circling softly, until she starts making urgent little noises, her renewed squirming taking on a different character altogether. _Now_ , yes: he presses two fingers against her clit as he stiffens his tongue and pushes it in, past that still-slackened muscle. Missy gives a loud cry, flexes; he tastes the bitterness of her body and the fluids he spent there, and massages her clit firmly until she screams out and surrenders to orgasm at last, pulsing on his tongue and fingers. 

When he finally releases her, Missy slides to her knees next to him, stretching and shaking out her hands; yes, her grip on the piano had been a bit white-knuckled at times. He helps smooth down her skirt, covering the evidence of what he's done: the porcelain skin of her buttocks red and swollen, wetness on the crack of her arse and her inner thighs. 

He pulls his own trousers back up, though he doesn’t bother to fasten them, and sits on the floor, leaning against the leg of the piano. “I'm supposed to give a lecture in twenty minutes,” he says without moving.

“Dishevelled, disreputable, and reeking of sex,” Missy says with lazy satisfaction. “Like our Academy days all over again.” She settles next to him, tucking her legs to the side so she can lean on her hip instead of her abused arse.

He glances over at her. “I've got a cream you can use,” he says. “If you're sore.” 

Missy snorts. “If? If I were human, I would hardly be able to sit down after that.”

He forbears to point out that she _isn't_ sitting down. “I'll bring you a cushion, too,” he promises idly. Not that the swelling and abrasions won’t be gone by tomorrow; their bodies heal fast. 

“Planning to do this again, are you?” she asks. He doesn’t recall her moving, but somehow her shoulder is against his, companionably. 

“If you want. You seemed to like most of it.”

Missy snickers. “I admit, I wasn’t necessarily expecting you to bugger me into next week.”

He clears his throat. “If you didn’t want me to…”

“No, no, it was a nice surprise. I was dying to see what you’d do next. Eating me out afterward was a nice touch.”

“Least I could do,” he says, closing his eyes. His head is leaning slightly against hers, and he might get away with it if he pretends not to notice. “You really could ask before it gets this bad, you know.”

“I’ll think about it. Going to give that lecture?”

He doesn’t feel like moving just now. “I’ve got a time machine.” 

“Mmm. So you’re free to help me clean up in the shower.”

He blinks back to a semblance of wakefulness. “You want to go again already? After that?”

“I want you to wash my back,” she sniffs. “Any violations of your bodily integrity would be purely coincidental.” 

“I’m sure.” The faint stirring of interest on his own part is also purely coincidental, probably. He turns slowly toward her, nose grazing her cheekbone. He’s having a bad idea, or maybe a very good one. One way to find out.

He can hear the eye-roll in her voice: “Must you always get soppy when we…” But she trails off before his lips brush hers. When she doesn’t seem inclined to bite, he leans in again. She’s the one who parts his lips, surprisingly gentle and thorough, communicating a few things she’s unlikely to say. Then she pushes him away lightly with her hand on his chest.

“Your mouth,” she says primly, “ _tastes like arse_.” 

He laughs until he’s wheezing, lying back under the piano. 

“Come on.” Missy stands, hauling him to his feet with a proffered hand. “I’m not sucking your cock until you’ve had a wash.”

The expression on his face must be priceless. She tugs his hand again. 

“Let’s skive off,” she says. “It won’t be the first time. You’ve got a time machine.”

He goes with her.


End file.
